


(You Are A) Shooting Star Across My Sky

by hephaestiions



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, Draco tries to be a good friend, Friendship, Harry is a bit of a mess, Hogwarts Eighth Year, How Do I Tag, Light Angst, M/M, Pining, They don't talk much here, Yule Ball (Harry Potter), but they're trying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:48:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21536965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hephaestiions/pseuds/hephaestiions
Summary: “Stay,” he whispers, doing his best to not get lost in Potter’s eyes which are still the same iridescent green, even in the darkness. "Please?"Potter says nothing and they remain there, with Potter on his knees and Draco holding his wrist.“Okay,” he whispers eventually. "Okay."They sit there together till the sun comes up.–Draco's always stared at Potter. This time, Potter stares back.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 267
Collections: HP Butterfly Fest 2019





	(You Are A) Shooting Star Across My Sky

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not too proud of this fic because I kind of wrote it in a rush and some parts of it seem too abrupt. But I think it's an easy read and I hope you like it!

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_Please note that alongside all the necessary requirements detailed on the shopping list sent to all eighth and seventh year students, eighth year students are required to bring dress robes and formal shoes. Muggle formal-wear is also acceptable. Term begins on 1st September. We await your arrival._  
  
_Yours Sincerely,_  
_Minerva McGonagall._

–

When his eyes meet Potter’s across the Great Hall during dinner on 1st September, Draco feels his breath catch in his throat as the potatoes in his mouth instantly turn to tasteless mush that he feels the urgent need to spit out.

Potter’s eyes are as green as they’ve ever been, but something in their intensity has shifted so fundamentally that Draco surreptitiously adjusts himself in his seat, discomfited by the unfamiliar attention.

He allows himself a mirthless smile when that thought crosses his mind- a Malfoy so unaccustomed to attention that he shies away from it, like a timid animal from a raging wildfire.

Who would have thought that he would live to see the day his fingers would begin to shake anytime he noticed someone’s eyes on him, his hands would get clammy at the mere indication of someone's approach and the notion of approaching anyone himself would make acrid bile rise in the back of his throat?

It’s just as well that everyone has maintained a considerable distance, choosing to leave Draco to his own devices. Merlin knows what he would have done if someone had made an attempt at either confrontation or conversation (neither of which Draco knows he can avoid forever) because anytime he even contemplates opening his mouth to speak, his tongue seems to shrivel in on itself.

Potter, he thinks, somewhat bitterly, has always been the exception to the social rules.

He knows– because yes, he does have peripheral vision, one does not simply go through a war without learning when there are eyes watching, tracking, observing– that Potter has been watching him since they saw each other during the Sorting for the first time since Draco’s trials in July. Draco has felt those eyes, vibrant and vivid on his back, on his sides, upon his bent head all through the evening like pointed laser beams burning holes through the thick robes that have all of a sudden begun to feel too warm.

Even when everyone else makes an active effort to not acknowledge his admittedly rather forgettable presence (something Draco is thankful for, given his current… circumstances), Potter seems to not take the hint, focusing only on Draco regardless of what else is going on. He wonders if Potter does it only to be contrary.

 _Don’t even look at the Death Eater_ , says everyone.

 _Let’s stare at him instead,_ says Potter.

It ought to be familiar territory, Draco thinks. Potter has always looked at him when he’s least wanted to be seen. Memories of Sixth Year flash unpleasantly through his mind and the scar that still tingles, pulses with life down his chest. But the War has changed them all and Potter’s gaze holds something different now, something Draco can’t place.

He’s always been intense. But now the green of Potter’s eyes has stopped resembling dewy leaves during dusky, sulky summer evenings. Instead, there’s the darkness found in the Forbidden Forest reflected in them, reminiscent of the Great Lake when its waters churn at the bidding of some unknown force.

But what truly unsettles Draco is not the ferocity but instead the new distance in Potter’s eyes. As though he’s not entirely where he is supposed to be. That, combined with the slightly unhinged air he seems to have around him now makes him unstable and even by looking at him, Draco knows that Potter’s magic is crackling like electricity around him, in the air, in his movements.

How no one else notices is beyond Draco. Maybe it’s just him who’s grown used to learning cues living with an insane megalomaniac in his house.

As of now, Potter has gone back to picking at his food. Draco notices that though he sits among friends, he appears to be just as isolated as Draco, who is sitting alone at the foot of the Slytherin table. The wide berth everyone is giving him clearly extends to the dinner table too. It is made worse by the fact that none of the Slytherins from Draco’s year have come back, all of them choosing to fuck off to France or Germany or some other obscure family estate that can’t be tracked by British wizards.

But he understands that. He understands not talking to the Death Eater, the bloke who stood by while the Carrows spewed Unforgivables, the snob who made almost everyone’s life a living hell from First Year itself. If he’d been in their shoes, he’d probably have cast a few unnoticed jinxes and hexes by now. They’re being merciful, really.

What he doesn’t understand is that when he looks at the Gryffindor table, Granger is talking to Ginevra, Finnegan and Thomas are throwing purple sparks at Longbottom who’s laughing and dodging, and Lovegood appears to be… weaving.

But Potter is an island amid the movement.

He’s barely eating, fiddling instead with his fork while his hair flies into his eyes repeatedly. Granger bumps him in the arm accidentally while gesturing and immediately turns to him to apologise but he waves her off and begins to trace patterns on his plate. Draco doesn’t miss the concerned look Granger shoots him but she visibly steels herself before turning back to Ginevra and somewhat forcibly resuming their conversation. Potter, sitting right beside her, remains oblivious.

  
He looks up once more and yet again, their eyes meet. Draco can’t help but wonder how, through the sea of yellow and blue, they always manage to find each other so effortlessly. There’s movement towards Draco’s right, startling him out of his reverie and he jerks his head sharply, but it’s just a house-elf cleaning up spilled juice from a First Year’s lap. When he looks back, Potter’s seat at the Gryffindor table is empty. Draco turns around, surprised, and is just in time to see the doors of the Hall close shut.

A hush overwhelms the Gryffindor table. Granger and Ginevra stop their conversation, looking helplessly towards the door, as though hoping it will open again to admit Potter. Finnegan and Thomas are looking at each other while Longbottom stares at Potter’s untouched plate. Out of them all, only Lovegood continues to weave, an odd serenity in her expression.

Everyone in the Hall shoots curious glances at the table, and anytime Granger catches anyone staring, she quells them with a single, potent glare that she might as well have perfected by watching Severus. Draco finds himself at the receiving end of one and looks away quickly.

Not because he’s scared. Not because he’s put off by Granger’s widened eyes and ugly scowl.

It’s because in that split second of eye-contact, he’s noticed she’s holding back tears.

-

Over the next few days, Potter remains conspicuously absent during mealtimes.

The forced laughter issuing from the Gryffindor posse grates on Draco’s ears. Watching Weasley, Granger and Potter during meals was Draco’s forte- so much so that he learnt to keep track of all their conversations from the movement of their lips and the subtle shifts in body language.

Which is why he knows now that Granger is lonely.

It is obvious in the slump of her shoulders and the way she sometimes turns to her side with an excited expression only to find no one there. Weasley has gone directly into Auror training and Potter is… here but not quite.

He doesn’t know what to do with this information. When he thinks about it, he realises he feels sorry for her and surprises himself when he further realises there is no part of him that wants to see her suffer any longer. Enough of that has happened already.

Her screams as Bellatrix tortured her within his home ring loud and clear in his head.

Sometimes she reads at the table but he notices how her eyes keep shifting to the door as though she is hoping against hope that Potter will make an appearance. Anytime the doors swing open, her head jerks up, anytime someone brushes past her, a hopeful expression makes its way onto her face only to drop. Sometimes she notices him staring and schools her face into neutrality but it isn’t as successful as she would probably like it to be. There’s only so much someone can do to mask the depth of their emotions, especially Gryffindors used to wearing their hearts on their sleeves and their thoughts on their faces.

–

A week into classes where the teachers say little to him and he works alone most of the time, Draco walks out of the hall and heads to Potions only to find Granger waiting for him outside the dungeons.

“Malfoy,” she acknowledges curtly and Draco feels his mouth fill with sawdust.

“Granger,” he manages, though somehow he makes it sound like the alien utterance of a cat being strangled slowly to death, the syllables unfamiliar on his tongue.

“Would you mind if I partnered with you today?” she asks, speaking so quickly that Draco thinks she’s speaking another language initially. “Harry isn’t coming to class and I don’t think we can brew Trisstesia by ourselves. It’s the sort of thing that needs a partner.”

Draco’s fairly sure he misheard her, so he asks, rather stupidly in his opinion, _“Pardon?”_

“I asked,” she repeats, frowning, “if you would mind partnering with me.”

Something must have shown on his face because Granger grows indignant almost instantaneously.

“Really Malfoy,” she huffs, adjusting her satchel. “After all this time and everything that’s happened, one would have expected you to let go of your stupid prejudices, but your lot, you never learn. I just thought…” She shakes her bushy head and a lock of brown hair falls into her eyes which Draco notices are suspiciously red. She turns to walk away when Draco finally finds his voice.

“Wait!” He calls out to her retreating back. She stops but doesn’t turn. “That isn’t what I meant.”

She turns at that, the frown still in place.

  
“I mean, I don’t _not_ want to partner with you.” His voice is scratchy from disuse and he realises with a jolt that it has been weeks since he spoke to anybody. “I just didn’t understand why you would want to, a-after, everything.”

Granger’s eyebrows shoot up into her hairline.

“The War is over, Malfoy,” she says, her demeanour intent. “I’m not interested in holding grudges.”

“Our grudge extends beyond the War, doesn’t it?” he asks her, raising a hand to his right cheek, a memory of being called a _foul, evil, loathsome little cockroach_ rising to the forefront of his memory. The corners of Granger’s lips twitch.

“Fair enough,” she admits and hesitates. “Truth is, you’re the only one who has any actual interest in Potions. And Tristessia isn’t something I want to brew with someone prone to setting the cauldron aflame.”

It really isn’t. Uncontrollable depression isn’t something one wishes to be Potion induced. He stares at her before nodding slowly.

“Wait till Slughorn sees,” he tells her when they walk into class side by side. “He’ll hate you for forcing him to acknowledge I attend Potions.”

This time she smiles. Its the first time he’s seen her smile since the dinner after the Sorting.

“Keep that up and I might just find you tolerable,” she mutters.

“Merlin forbid,” Draco responds dryly.  
  
-

When Potter attends Potions, which is a scarce occurrence, Granger partners with him. Draco isn’t hindered by that, he’s more than competent at chopping his own ingredients and grinding blackberries hardly ever requires another person.

When Potter doesn’t attend Potions, Granger partners with Draco.

Why she does it is beyond him.

He knows she is more than capable of brewing her own potions with or without a partner. He asked her once in response to which she gave him an indecipherable look that quickly turned unimpressed and told him in no uncertain terms to, “Get on with the damn sprinkling of the Cornish Pixie dust, Malfoy, or do you want me to relegate you to Seamus’ level in Potions?” He hadn’t asked after that, though the memory makes him smile a bit wider than he’d like to admit.

She fills the workspace with inane chatter in a low voice while they chop and grind and stir. She talks about the things that happen in the Gryffindor common room, things that are apparently happening in Auror training that Weasley writes to her about, the last interesting book she found in the library.

At first Draco had thought of telling her he just wasn’t interested in knowing the details of how Longbottom ended up streaking bare arsed through the common room or of how Pride and Prejudice was her favourite Muggle novel (though he had looked it up later, found it, read it and liked it more than he expected to) but something in her tone had stopped him.

Maybe it was the memory of her slumped shoulders at breakfast or her hopefulness for Potter’s appearance at lunch.

He discovers that she swears like a sailor caught in a storm, letting loose a string of expletives like a chant anytime she misses a step or adds in more ingredients than she should. He admits rather grudgingly and only to himself that she has a wickedly dry sense of humour that makes an appearance in the running commentary she maintains of the occurrences during class.

So he lets her talk and the first time he asks her for a Muggle book recommendation, her eyes light up and he ends up with a list longer than his Potions homework assignment.

  
Sometimes she asks him about his life and at first Draco wanted to remain cold and aloof, share no details and remain in the shadows. Over time, he realises he doesn’t really have anything to say about anything because his existence now is a summary of _eat, study, attend classes, repeat,_ none of which is particularly interesting. When he methodically works through the list of recommendations, they talk about Frankenstein and about Rebecca and during one particularly scarring conversation, Lolita.

She talks about her friends– Longbottom and Ginevra, Lovegood and Patil, Brown _who really isn’t all that bad once you get past the whole Won-won thing._ She has the presence of mind to not ask after his friends- she knows none of them came back. He has the presence of mind to not ask about Potter- he doesn’t know if he _did_ come back. Not in the ways that actually matter.

Today they’re brewing the Draught of Living Death and Granger is narrating a story about how Ginevra hexed a sixth year and was reported to McGonagall who asked her to sit down and join her for tea.

“And what did Ginevra hex the sixth year for?” Draco asks, curiosity piqued.

Instead of answering, Granger stops her stirring and looks up at him. Her face is flushed from the cauldron heat and her eyes are watering from the pungent fumes indicating her potion is brewing properly.

“You always call her that,” she says, cocking her head to one side.

“What?” Draco asks, confused.

“Ginny. You call her Ginevra. You call us all by our last names but you call her Ginevra.”

Draco frowns. “If I call her Weasley, how would one know which one I’m talking about?”

Granger looks as though she doesn’t believe him and his heart clenches because there are reasons he can’t bring himself to call her… anything else. Reasons he doesn’t think he can intimate to Granger anytime soon. The way the Carrows laughed about the ‘Weaslette’, telling him how he ought never touch her with his bare hands lest his blood become tainted from contact. The discovery of what his father had done to her and how when Draco had confronted him, he’d merely said, she’s dispensable. He can’t tell her about those things, not yet, possibly not ever. He can’t explain how calling her Ginevra is his way of paying respect to her.

He doesn’t want Granger to probe and as though reading his mind, she rolls her eyes and says, “You’re such an arse, Draco, I don’t know why I bother calling you my friend.”

The ladle clatters to the side of the cauldron, slipping from Draco’s hand with the force of his surprise.

  
“What did you just say?” He asks her, feeling his eyes widening. “I called you an arse,” she says, not looking up. “It’s not that surprising, surely?”

“You know what I mean!” He hisses at her. “You said we were friends!”

“I know what I said, Draco,” she says with the patience of someone who is used to dealing with eighteen year olds behaving like they’re five.

He stares at her bent head for a few more minutes, opening and closing his mouth like a fish. When he turns back to his cauldron, his light pink potion has gone an alarming shade of red. He hastily stirs anti-clockwise, but his focus is anywhere but on his potion.

“We can’t be friends,” he says eventually.

“Really.”

“Yes!” Draco cries, loudly. Too loudly. So loudly that a few heads turn their way and Slughorn calls out, “Is everything alright over there?”

“Yes, Sir, quite,” responds Granger. Her voice comes out weary but with an undercurrent of fondness that Draco thinks is directed at him, because he knows exactly what Granger thinks of Slughorn.

“No, listen, Granger, being friends with me, it can’t be advantageous to you! You have to think before you make grandiose statements like that!”

“Draco,” she finally says, looking up, exasperated. “I said we were _friends_. I didn’t propose to marry you.”

“Yes, and I am a _disgraced Death Eater._ You… you’re you and your friends are supposed to be noble and good and Gryffindor and I…” he trails off.

“What you are,” says Granger, punctuated her words with distinct chops with her knife and an air of finality, “is my friend.”

“Right,” says Draco faintly. _“Right.”_  
  
–  
  
“Ginny,” says Granger, banging her satchel down next to Draco, “is driving me bloody _insane.”_

“What’s new?” Draco asks, not looking up from where he’s rummaging through his notes to find Snape’s instructions on how to create Dreamless Sleep given that Slughorn just asks them to look at the book and be done with it.

“No, she’s trying to have fun, but what she’s doing isn’t good for anybody involved and I can’t do a damn thing about it.”

Draco glances at her. She looks frazzled– hair all over the place, fingers drumming nervously along the tabletop.

“What’s wrong with Ginevra, then?”

“She’s going out with Seamus but then Seamus is clearly not into it because he’s had a crush on Dean since Second Year, which Ginny knows about, hell, everyone knows about, but Ginny says she doesn’t care, she’s just in it for a spot of fun–”

“Wait a minute,” Draco interrupts. “Finnegan’s gay? For _Thomas?”_

Granger shoots him an odd look. “No one said anything about being gay, Draco. Seamus is probably bi, I mean him and Neville had that weird fling in Fifth Year. But he’s had that raging crush on Dean forever that everyone knows goes beyond being best friends but neither of them will admit to it and it’s all a bloody mess.”

Draco gapes.

Granger continues, “And there’s always the bit where Ginny and Dean went out for a while and now it’s all so awkward that no one can figure out whom to approach.”

“I thought Ginevra was with Potter,” Draco manages after a few seconds.

Granger looks up from her Potions book, a surprised expression on her face. “Harry? No! Harry and Ginny, they broke up before the War, actually.”

Draco doesn’t know what to say.

“I thought they were still together,” he eventually offers.

“Not since before we left during the War. They tried for about a week after coming back but well…” she trails off.

“It didn’t work out,” he finishes. She shoots him a small smile.

They work in silence for a few minutes before curiosity bubbles up in Draco.

“If you don’t mind me asking–” he begins hesitantly. Granger looks up inquisitively. “What’s Potter’s deal?”

He cringes the minute the words leave his lips, realising how truly tactless he has been in asking something so evidently sensitive in a fashion quite this crass.

He peers at Granger through his lashes, expected a reprimand or a glare but instead, she barely looks up from her list of ingredients that she’s printing on a fresh sheet of parchment. For a moment Draco thinks she hasn’t heard.

“No one really knows,” she says, abruptly breaking the silence. “With Harry, I mean. No one knows what his deal is.”

It’s Draco’s turn to cast a curious glance.

“Since May, he’s been that way. A perfect nightmare, honestly. He barely talks and when he does its usually monosyllabic words. He hasn’t written to the Weasleys in months and he writes to Ron but its barely a sentence and I can tell Ron is getting more worried than he should be.”

“He did kill a man,” Draco says. “That’s bound to fuck with even those who have all their wits about them at all times and Potter’s hardly in that category.”

“A man,” Granger snorts. “If you can call Voldemort a man, then yes, he killed a man.”

Draco shrugs. “When you cast a curse that takes a life, it leaves its mark. No matter who’s on the receiving end.”

He can feel Granger’s eyes on the side of his neck. “Sometimes I think talking to you would be good for him. But he’s too stubborn and you’re too… volatile.”

The force with which he spins around to glare at her almost causes him to sprain his neck. “Volatile?” He hisses. “I’ll show you volatile! Potter’s the one who goes around looking like one misplaced word would make him cast an Unforgivable and you call _me_ volatile!”

Granger gives him a pointed once over and he is suddenly aware of the way his breath is shallow, his fists are clenched and his eyes are burning. Talking about Potter fucking always does this to him.

“Volatile, Draco,” she says. “There’s a reason.”  
  
–  
  
  
Draco realises with a jolt one day, that Granger is his only friend.

He comes to this conclusion when he finds himself mentally cataloguing a difficult Arithmancy problem for his next conversation with her and finds himself, shockingly, looking forward to the prospect of it.  
  
Friendship to him has always been something either to be approved or disapproved of so this easy relationship with her is both novel and strangely satisfying. It's so _easy._

He tells her as much when the time comes and she looks surprised at first but then a little pleased.

“It’s good to know, Draco,” is all she says though he knows by now that she probably has far more to actually tell him.

“Do you want to spend a few hours in the library today in the evening?” She asks, eventually. “I have all these notes to go over for next week’s homework for both Transfiguration and Advanced Runes and I think we could study together.”

He hesitates before answering.

“Are you sure it won’t be a problem?”

She smiles. “Course not.”

–

It is a problem, Draco realises with dawning horror when he walks up to Granger in the library and notices for the first time the mop of black, messy hair that could belong to only one person.

He almost spins on his heel and leaves but both Potter’s green gaze and Granger’s pleading one are fixed upon him already so all he can do is awkwardly fidget, unsure if he’s welcome.

“Draco,” Granger begins and the apprehension is evident in her tone. “Harry really needs to start on his Transfiguration work and I figured I could help him so I asked him to come along, is that a problem?”

Draco wants to say, _you know it is_ , wants to say, _do you really care because if you did you wouldn’t just force me to come face to face with Potter with no warning_ but all he manages is a tight smile and a curt nod.

“If Potter’s okay with it, who am I to object?” His voice comes out even and some of the tension dissipates from the lines of Granger’s face.

“Sit down, please.”

Draco draws out a chair, the noise of creaking wood loud in the otherwise silent library. He pulls out his Transfiguration notes when suddenly Granger exclaims, “I forgot! We were supposed to refer to that book McGonagall mentioned in class- Dark Transfigurations. I think there is a copy somewhere, I’ll get it.”

Before Draco can volunteer to go and fetch it himself, Granger has vacated her seat.

He feels his heart beating in his throat. Potter is looking at him, that same strangely vacant yet intense gaze that Draco had noticed during the Welcome Feast. That look, it haunts him. In his nightmares, in his daydreams, during his waking moments when he catches a glimpse of Potter in the hallways.

He clears his throat, trying to ignore the obvious tension.

“Granger said you needed help?” He asks, tentatively testing the waters.

Potter nods, a sharp jerk of his head.

“With the essay due next week?” He presses, hoping to draw out some response.

Potter nods again. His expression is blank, the soft lights in the library reflecting off the glass of his spectacles.

“You weren’t there for quite a few classes, is that a problem for you?” Draco tries.

Potter shrugs. Draco gives up.

They sit in uncomfortable silence for a few more moments before Potter speaks. His voice is raspy, like he hasn’t used it in days. Maybe he smokes, a distant part of Draco’s brain supplies. Another part immediately visualises a corresponding image of Potter standing on the shore of the lake, a stream of smoke curling around his mouth, a grey halo in the dying light of dusk. Draco shifts slightly.

“I have your wand.”

Draco was so focused on the images and their connotations that he almost missed the words. When he finally catches on to them, he feels his eyes widen against his own volition as he squeaks out a, “Beg your pardon?”

“I have your wand,” Potter says, looking at him. He has a habit of making full eye contact when he speaks and it unsettles Draco who’s only used to Slytherin tactics of eye-contact. There are rules for this sort of thing, he thinks indignantly. One never makes eye-contact when making semi-monumental statements. This is the time for a flickering gaze- a split second of full eye contact, a moment spent looking away, things like that. But Potter clearly isn’t intimate with eye etiquette.

“My wand?” Draco manages. “The one you…”

“The one I took from you in the Manor.”

Potter isn’t in the mood for subtlety, Draco realises and furtively glances around the library for Granger.

“What about it?” He asks Potter, keeping his eyes on the books he can see behind Potter’s head.

“I was wondering if you want it back. It’s been lying in my drawer for a while and I didn’t send it to you because I wasn’t sure how you felt about it.”

Granger’s taking too long, Draco thinks desperately.

“Why now, Potter?” He asks, simply because there is absolutely nothing else he can think to say in this situation.

“Because you’re sitting across from me, trying to engage in completely pointless small talk. I’d much rather give you something to actually talk about.”

Draco backs away, stung.

“If my presence here is as pointless as you seem to think,” he says, shoving the notes he had taken out back into his bag, “Maybe you should have let Granger know. She’d have had the decency to cancel.” He moves to get up when he hears Potter sigh.

“Wait,” Potter says, his sandpaper-rough voice doing things to Draco he’d rather not think too deeply about.

Draco stops.

“I didn’t mean to offend you.”

Draco snorts. Potter’s lips twitch.

“Alright, maybe I did, a little bit. But I’m sorry, it was unwarranted.”

Draco nods. He doesn’t think he can explain to Potter that the only reason his words stung is because Draco wholeheartedly agrees. His presence anywhere is pointless, as are his efforts, as are his actions. He’s ensured that effectively during the War.

He can’t meet Potter’s eyes because that damned verdant gaze is too much for him to take. He’d rather not discover unwelcome truths in their depths, find pity or disgust.

“It’s alright, Potter,” he manages. “And if you’re actually interested in giving the damn wand back, we can meet near the Lake after dinner.”

He’s taken aback by his own words because he hadn’t really thought them through- they’d just transferred themselves without his permission into the uncomfortable space between them. But Potter nods anyway and Draco feels an odd sense of both relief and finality.  
  
–  
  
Draco and Granger write their essays while Potter goes through Granger’s notes, sometimes pointing out sections he can’t understand.

“He missed some classes,” Granger explains to Draco as though they hadn’t spent half of Potions with her ranting to him about Potter’s lack of motivation and will when it came to anything except wandering the halls of Hogwarts in the dead of the night.

Draco nods in response as though he hadn’t told her during Arithmancy that he understood that desire to do absolutely nothing, feel the pointlessness of existence creep right into his bones.

They both go on, scratching their quills against parchment, as though she hadn’t told him repeatedly that he might be able to get through to Potter if they’d both just put their stubbornness aside and have a conversation.

They might even become friends, Granger had surmised and Draco had broken a quill in half.

But now, none of that comes up. When finally Draco puts his quill down saying he can’t possibly write a word more that makes even a modicum of sense, Granger puts her own quill down and yawns.

“I think we got quite a bit of it done, though,” she says, critically eyeing her own parchment which is almost full. “I have about seven inches left to write.”

“I have five,” Draco says. “We could sit together some other time and finish it off. I’d read yours, you could read mine and we’d be done.”

Granger nods and yawns again. Potter looks up from his perusal of Granger’s notes. “You need to go for dinner and then get some sleep, Mione.”

  
She shakes her head ruefully. “Ginny wants me to help her with an Astronomy project they have. I can get something to eat though.” She turns her hopeful gaze on Potter. “Care to join me?”

Draco notes the way Potter studiously avoids looking at her when he shakes his head, his jaw clenched.

“You go on, Mione. I’ll eat something tomorrow morning.” He notes the way the hope melts away from Granger’s face to be replaced by something so resigned that it causes his heart to clench. “You coming, Draco?” She asks, hoisting her satchel onto her shoulder.

He knows he should leave with her, he knows he shouldn’t sign up for something that will probably leave his self-worth splintered into fragments but instead he says, “Why don’t you go on? I’ll catch up.”

She shoots him a curious look, shrugs and leaves.

Potter turns to look at him expectantly.

“Is there a reason,” Draco begins, trying to be as non-confrontational as possible, “that you act like a perpetual arse to her?”

He fails.

Potter’s eyes widen comically behind his lenses. He opens and shuts his mouth a few times like a particularly inept yet attractive goldfish before hissing, “Excuse me?”

“You,” Draco tries to keep his tone as matter-of-fact as possible, “are incapable of behaving like anything remotely resembling a good friend. Is there a reason?”

“What fucking right–” Potter begins, a tiny fleck of spit landing on his bottom lip from the sheer vehemence he speaks the words with, but is quickly cut off.

“I’m not trying to argue with you,” Draco says. “I’m not accusing you. I’m pointing out the facts and I’m trying to find a reason that either justifies or at the very least explains them.”

Potter glares at him for a few more seconds before the fight seems to completely leave his body. “She doesn’t need to hang around me more than she has to. I’m… not who I used to be.”

“Is that her fault?”

“What?” Potter asks like the buffoon he is, blinking at Draco.

“Is the fact that your sense of identity a lost cause Granger’s fault?”

“Of course not,” Potter says, indignant righteousness lacing his words. “Why would you even _say_ that?”

“Because you’re taking it out on her and the only universe in which she deserves that from you, from anybody, is in the one where she is the direct cause of it. If she isn’t, you have to come up with a better explanation.”

Potter stares at him.

Draco stares right back. The silence is charged.

Eventually Draco breaks it. “Look, Potter, you spoke at my trials, I will be eternally thankful for that. It spared me Azkaban. My mother still writes to me, requesting me to thank you on her behalf. Father, when he’s allowed, curses your existence but he has to admit that his wife, whom he has loved more than himself was spared his fate because of you.”

“Stop talking about me like that,” Potter mutters through clenched teeth.

“Like you’re the Saviour?” Draco questions.

Potter nods.

“But like it or not,” Draco says, “You are. For a lot of people. No matter what shit you do, that is all you will ever be to a lot of people. The guy who ended the regime of terror of an insane megalomaniac.”

“Why are you telling me these things?” A pleading note has crept into Potter’s voice.

“Because I need you to understand what you are to the world and how different it is from what you are to Granger. You’re not her saviour, Potter. You’re supposed to be her best friend. She doesn’t perceive you the way the rest of the world does. Maybe you should try not treating her the way you’re treating the rest of the world.”

“No one fucking understands,” Potter mutters, shaking his head.

“You think I don’t understand depression, Potter?” Draco questions, lightly slapping the desk. Madame Pince shoots him a disapproving look which he ignores. “The War? What it can do to you? Trauma? You think I don’t understand? That Granger doesn’t, Weasley doesn’t, Ginevra doesn’t? Longbottom? Finnegan? Thomas? Patil? Fucking Pansy? Even…” he trails off.

_“Who?”_

“Cedric. Snape. Your godfather. Professor Lupin. You think they don’t know?”

“Fuck you, Malfoy.” Potter’s eyes are a blazing wildfire.

“No, Potter, fuck _you_. You think you’re the only one who understands those things? You think anyone is fucking fine after the damn War?”

“So, what?” Potter asks mockingly. “I ought to go to classes just because everyone who is going has also gone through the War? I should go to dinner because everyone else eating has also known what its like to not have an appetite?”

“You imbecile,” Draco grits out. “You fucking inept _bastard_. What I’m saying is if you don’t feel like attending the damn classes because the way things are over there is too much for you, you ask someone in the evening for the damned notes. If you don’t want to go through them because that’s too much for you, you put a copying charm and keep the damn copy. If applying the damn charm is too much for you, ask someone to do it for you. If asking someone is too much for you sometimes, tell them during one of your better moments that you need their fucking help.”

Potter’s staring again.

“Granger, right?” Draco continues. “She just wants you to come for fucking dinner. If you think I don’t understand that’s too much sometimes, you’re dafter than I thought you were. But if you would just tell her that, explain it instead of being some sort of elusive ghost who only shows up in the common room after everyone has gone to sleep, she wouldn’t keep asking. She isn’t worried because you aren’t doing anything Potter, she’s worried because you’re shutting all your avenues to ever do anything. She’s worried because you’re giving up.”

There’s silence once more. Unbroken silence.

Eventually Potter gets up.

“I’m going to the Great Hall. You coming?”  
  
–  
  
When they walk into the Great Hall side by side, there’s complete silence for a couple of seconds before everyone picks up where they left off. Eyes follow Potter as he walks over to the Gryffindor table and for the first time, some eyes follow him as he makes his way over to Slytherin.

He sees the way Granger looks wildly between him and Potter, how Ginevra looks up from her heated argument with Finnegan with an indecipherable expression. How Longbottom drops his fork when Potter greets him, how Thomas’ face breaks out in a smile.

Fucking Potter, Draco thinks wistfully.

He could walk into any room and everyone would look at him like he’s the fucking sun after days of incessant rain. And Draco understands because he would do the exact same. Maybe not this obviously, maybe not with all his emotions writ plain on his face.

But he knows what it is like to see Potter’s face and think the sun has risen once more.  
  
–  
  
When he’s walking to the dungeons, Granger catches up to him. She’s breathless and a little red in the face but her eyes are shining.

“I don’t know what you told him,” she pants. “But I think I could kiss you right about now.”

“He’s not better,” Draco warns, immediately. He doesn’t want to ruin her exuberance but he also doesn’t want her to live with false hope. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

“I know,” Granger says, almost jubilantly. “I know he isn’t better and that’s okay. That’s okay because he’s talking to me! _He_ told me he’s not better! He actually leaned in and whispered that we should talk so I put up a Muffliato and he actually spoke to me. Draco, I…”

She looks so excited at the prospect of Potter even talking to her that Draco’s spirits lift. He’s as sincere as he could possibly ever be when he tells her, “I’m glad to hear it, Granger.”

“Hermione,” she says, gently. “Please, Draco. No last names.”

He hesitates before nodding in affirmation. “Hermione.”

Her smile widens imperceptibly.  
  
–  
  
Draco takes a moment to admire Potter’s stance as he stands by the Lake that evening.

He’s facing away so his face can’t be seen but he’s standing with his arms folded and his feet apart. His posture makes his shoulders look broader and though Potter is a little bit shorter than him, in this moment he seems to almost tower over the long shadows that fall around him.

Potter’s curls are swaying with every gust of wind and Draco notices that his hair is noticeably longer down his back than it appears from the front. He should probably think about tying it back if it gets any longer, he thinks abstractly.

The night is quiet and the only sounds are the gentle lapping of the waters of the Great Lake against the broken shore and the wind rustling through the trees of the Forbidden Forest in the distance. When Potter speaks, his voice carries to where Draco’s standing.

“I know you’re there.”

Draco doesn’t ask when he developed such an acute sixth sense so instead he closes the distance between them, walking over to stand beside him.

“The Lake is lovely this time of the year,” Draco tells him, looking at the dark waves.

Potter shrugs. There’s light coming from somewhere and his lenses are reflecting it, making his glasses look thicker than they are, obscuring his eyes. “It always looks the same to me.”

“No,” Draco smiles, involuntarily. “Not here. Underwater.”

“How do you know– oh. The dungeons.”

Draco nods.

There’s a charged second of silence after which Draco says, “What about my wand?” and Potter says at the same time, “Will you show me sometime?”

They stare at each other. Draco’s sure he looks like a blinking fool, with his confusion evident all over his face. Potter looks strangely upset.

With a sigh, Potter takes out a pouch from his pocket and draws out Draco’s wand.

_Draco’s wand._

The wand used to kill the Dark Lord. The wand that brought the final end. Draco’s fucking wand. Potter holds it out but Draco can’t bring his hands up to grasp it. He knows they’re clammy where he’s kept them clenched against his thighs.

“Malfoy,” Potter’s voice is quiet. “Take it.”

He looks at Potter and he knows his voice is shaking because the words come out strangled, “I–I can’t.”

“It’s your wand,” Potter says and there’s conviction in his voice that Draco can’t feel in his clenching, erratically beating heart. “Malfoy, it’s your wand.”

Draco closes his eyes. There’s memories, flashes of colour and sound pulsing against his eyelids, recollections of his aunt giggling maniacally as he cast Crucio on some poor Muggle sitting in his cellar with wide eyes and no understanding of what was going on around him, of his desperate attempts to cast a Patronus charm when he was holed up in his own room, of Potter screaming Expelliarmus and his wand shooting out the brightest jet of red light he had ever seen to meet Voldemort’s green halfway.

He can’t take it back.

“It’s not mine. You’ve… you’ve redeemed it. You should keep it.”

“What?” Potter asks, brows furrowed.  
  
“The things I cast with it, the things I couldn’t stop myself from having to cast with this wand… you redeemed them all with that Expelliarmus. I can’t take it back and… taint it again.” A wistful smile finds its way onto his face. "It deserves better than that." 

Potter’s expression clears. “Touch it, Malfoy," he says, quietly. "You don’t have to take it back. Just reach out and touch it.”

He keeps his eyes on Potter’s face as his shaking hand unclenches and comes up to touch the smooth wood he has not felt against his palms in what feels like decades. The Unicorn hair core thrums with magic and the sweat on his palms dries up, as though the wand has taken that decision for him.

His touch almost makes it… eager. It's pulsing softly against his hand and Draco thinks, distantly amused that his wand is acting rather like a Kneazle meeting its master after a month.  
  
Potter smiles, a tiny shift of his lips. “See? It still likes you,” he murmurs.  
  
In the darkness of the night with Potter’s green eyes appearing a dark blue, with Draco’s heart beating in his throat, his ears, his mouth, with a wand between them that they’re both holding, the admission feels like something more.  
  
_Will you show me sometime?_ Potter had asked. Draco doesn’t think he can bring himself to fully acknowledge just how much he wants to.  
  
–  
  
“So who are you taking to the Ball?” Hermione asks during Potions.

“Sorry?” Draco asks, sure he’s misheard her.

“The Christmas Ball, Draco. The one in three weeks, the one McGonagall has continuously been talking about. Who are you taking?”

He looks at her, certain that she has gone completely insane. “I didn’t even bring dress robes, what makes you think I’m _going_?”

She smacks him upside the head immediately. “Attendance is compulsory, you pillock.”

“Not if I manage to get sick,” he says with a shrug and a smirk.

“Draco," Hermione sighs, "Go and have fun for an evening instead of being a killjoy for once? Please? Just one evening and its for a good cause.”

Draco snorts. “A fundraiser for Hogwarts. The families who could have contributed significantly are all either in Azkaban or in Denmark or Finland or the countrysides of France. Who’s going to pay?”

Hermione gaze turns thoughtful. “There were a lot of families who stayed out of the War. They’re sending their children to Hogwarts now, surely they don’t want the school to be in shambles? In any case, that isn’t the point. The point is, you’re coming and you’re going to try and bring someone too.”

“Can’t I take you if I go?”

She laughs and shakes her head. “Ron’s coming. We’re going together. But…”

“But what?” He asks her sharply, not liking her contemplative look and the twinkle in her eye.

“You could take Harry,” she says, the twinkle intensifying.

“Harry Potter,” Draco says flatly. “You want me to take Harry Potter.”

“Take me where?” Says a voice behind them and both Draco and Hermione whip around in surprise to see Potter standing there, shifting awkwardly on his feet. He hasn’t made an effort with his hair and his sweater is much too large for his frame but he has a satchel which looks like it has a couple books. He looks a little intimidated and Draco is reminded of the little wizard he had come across in a robe shop with spectacles too large for his eyes and a face full of surprised wonder.  
  
“Harry!” Hermione says, trying quite obviously not to sound surprised and failing spectacularly.

“Yeah, I… can I join you guys?” Potter asks sheepishly. He looks uncertain, as though he’s expecting them to say no.

Granger’s clearly too stunned to speak so it’s Draco who says, “Yes, sit down, try not to blow everything up and maybe we’ll see about finally getting this Potion done. Granger here has been fucking it up the last three times we tried.”

Potter nods, relief spreading across his features and Hermione shoots Draco a smile.

“So where were you thinking of taking me?” Potter asks, sitting down beside her.  
  
“The Christmas Ball,” she responds. “I was telling Draco to take you as his date.”  
  
“Oh,” Potter says, scratching the back of his head. “I don’t think I’m going.”  
  
Draco snorts, Hermione groans and Slughorn enters right at that moment, bustling around in his robes that are better suited as a nightgown.  
  
“Why don’t I fetch the ingredients while you lecture Potter on the importance of the cause?” Draco says, getting up. Hermione glares at him and Potter looks concerned. Draco turns away, unwilling to let them see the smile on his face.  
  
–  
  
Something happens after that.

Potter still skips classes but he comes for some. When he doesn’t, he asks Hermione to explain things and sometimes if Hermione is too busy, Potter comes to find him in the Library. There has been no truce, no cathartic conversation between them but somehow the simmering antagonism has been reduced to a negligible discomfort.

They barely talk when it isn’t about Potions or Transfiguration or Defence. But sometimes Potter brings up Hermione and sometimes Draco asks after Weasley and Ginevra and it’s not a friendship but it’s… something. And that something makes him want Potter more than he did.

But Draco’s grown accustomed to wanting Potter by now.

He looks at the way Potter’s shoulders fill out his shirts now, so vastly different from the oversized, ugly clothes of his younger years. He finds himself staring at the way Potter grips his wand when he’s casting, looking away only when he sees Potter shooting him strange looks. He knows that Potter’s collarbones sometimes peek out when he’s roaming around in Muggle t-shirts without his robes and he’s grown resigned to the fact that when that happens, his eyes have a hard time looking at anything else.

He’s fairly sure Potter knows. He’s surprised by how little he cares.

He knows Hermione knows because one day she brings it up in casual conversation. “Did you give any thought to taking Harry to the Ball? He still doesn’t have a date. Like last time,” she says when the conversation goes from Ginevra’s breakup with Finnegan to Potter’s improving grades.

“Why do you think that’s a good idea?” Draco finally asks her, exasperated.

“Because you keep staring at his arse and I think you’ll find that it looks great in that Muggle suit he bought a couple of days ago.”

_“What?”_

“He does have a great arse,” Hermione nods sagely. “Even I can appreciate that.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it. I do _not–_ ”

“Come off it, Draco,” Hermione says, looking at him slightly reproachfully. “It’s okay.”

Draco looks away. “Am I that obvious?”

“Not to everyone,” she grins. “To me you are.”

“Does he know?” He asks her. He doesn’t really care if Potter knows but Granger confirming it would at least cement some of the uncertainty.

“I don’t know,” she replies.

The uncertainty deepens.  
  
–  
  
They’re sitting by the Lake because Hermione is talking to McGonagall about her potential in different career fields and while Draco is trying to write his Charms essay, Potter is throwing stones into the lake, watching the water ripple.

“You said it looks nice this time of the year. From the dungeons.”

  
Draco nods, distractedly.

“I asked you to show me. You didn’t say anything.”

Draco drops his quill.

“If you don’t want to, I understand but my memories of this Lake aren’t that great and I would like to… rectify that. Will you show me?”

Draco looks up. Potter’s gaze is entirely sincere, right down to the flutter of his eyelashes.

“You want to enter the Slytherin Common Room?” He asks.

“Nothing I haven’t done before,” Potter smiles.

“What?” Draco asks, startled by the response.

“Second Year, long story. Ask Hermione sometime,” Potter says, lips twitching upwards.

Draco shakes his head. “You know, I always thought that all those stories about you and Hermione and Weasley were exaggerated tales that originated in the Gryffindor Common Room. They aren’t, are they?”

“There’s one about the Gryffindor Boys Dormitory Orgy. I don’t think the details people seem to know are quite right,” Potter shrugs.

Draco gapes. Potter’s lips twitch again.

“You’re a right blithering idiot, Potter,” Draco says and is horrified by the way his words come out slightly breathless. When Potter smiles at him, he's fascinated by the way his eyes crinkle around the corners.

“I know,” Potter says.

He doesn’t. He really doesn’t have a goddamn clue.

Draco doesn’t draw attention to the fact that he still hasn’t agreed to show Potter.  
  
–  
  
Draco hasn’t been to the Astronomy Tower since he was in sixth year. He dropped Astronomy the first chance he got and McGonagall seemed to understand though his mother didn’t. Both the Black and the Malfoy families had been serious students of Astronomy with NEWTS in the subject. Draco didn’t care. Dumbledore’s glassy eyes as he fell haunt his nightmares almost everyday.

So when he finds himself climbing the spiral staircase with tears spilling down his cheeks, he knows its probably one of the worst ideas he’s had in a while.

He reaches the top and the grounds of Hogwarts stretch out before him, the Forbidden Forest an ominous black mass in the distance. There’s light coming from Hagrid’s hut and some errant children are hidden in his pumpkin patch, the tops of their ginger and blonde heads visible only from the bird’s eye view he seems to have.

“Fuck,” he whispers, sinking down to the floor. “Fuck.”

He doesn’t really know why he’s here except that he had found one of his diaries from sixth year where he had detailed in almost clinical terms the numerous ways in which he had failed to fix the Vanishing Cabinet. The flashes of white light, the dead animals, the strange sounds. The Room Of Hidden Things threatening to bury him alive, under the weight of towers of long-forgotten things. He had become one of those Hidden Things that year. The journal had taken him back and now… he can’t think of anything else.

“Fuck,” he whispers again, trying in vain to stem the flow of tears blurring his vision.

He doesn’t want to be alone but he has absolutely no one to turn to right now. Hermione shouldn’t have to deal with his guilt over his own faults that had led to Dumbledore’s death. His friends… the full weight of their absence comes crashing down on him.

Fuck.

“You need to stop saying that,” says a voice to his right and Draco startles terribly.

  
There’s a swish of air and Potter materialises before his eyes like a vision, a hallucination and Draco realises he had been under the cover of invisibility right beside him all this while.

“Stalking me again?” Draco asks and tries not to cringe at the way his voice breaks.

Potter shakes his head. “I was here when I heard you come up the stairs.”

“I haven’t been here since… that night,” Draco mumbles. Potter nods.

They sit in silence, staring at Hagrid’s hut.

“I’ve been here almost every night since we came back to Hogwarts this year,” Potter confides eventually. “It’s quiet.”

“The quiet terrifies me,” Draco admits. “After, after the Manor. The quiet can have anything in it.”

“When we went on the run, it was just Ron, Hermione and me in a tent. I got used to falling asleep to just two sets of breaths. When I wake up in the dorm, if I have a silencing charm on, I hear nothing and I panic because I think they’re gone. If I don’t have a silencing charm on, I hear all those other breaths and I panic because I think it could be anyone,” Potter says. His voice is soft, almost soothing. It’s lost its sandpaper quality and Draco can only hope that’s because he’s talking more.

“I don’t know why I came here,” Draco says. “I don’t want to be here.”

Potter meets his eyes. “We could go somewhere else.”

Draco shakes his head. “I think I _need_ to be here.”

“Alright,” Potter says, getting up. “I’ll leave you alone.”

Before Draco knows it, he’s reaching out to grip Potter’s wrist before he slips back under his Cloak.

“Stay,” he whispers, doing his best to not get lost in Potter’s eyes which are still the same iridescent green, even in the darkness.

Potter says nothing and they remain there, with Potter on his knees and Draco holding his wrist.

“Okay,” he whispers eventually.

They sit there together till the sun comes up.  
  
–  
  
The dynamic shifts between Potter and him in that night. He doesn’t have a name for it but he thinks that that line of ‘not-quite-friends’ has officially been crossed. They don’t talk much but when they do, the discomfort all but disappears.

Hermione’s pleased, Draco knows. He’d expected that.

What he hadn’t expected however, was a flustered Potter asking him while walking out of Defence a couple of days later, “Will you go to the Ball with me, Malfoy? Hermione insists that I have to go and she won't agree to me going without someone, something about Wizarding etiquette that I know nothing about and honestly, the first person I thought of was you. Of course it's alright if you already have a date..."  
  
Draco trips on his own feet and his satchel empties its contents all across the floor and when both him and Potter bend down to pick up the large quill lying at their feet, their foreheads bump hard.

It’s a complete disaster and Draco shoots a glare at Potter who looks absolutely mortified but oddly determined.

“As friends!” Potter rushes to clarify, once he realises what asking someone to a Ball implies, the dunderhead.

Ignoring the slight twinge of melancholy in his stomach, Draco responds dryly, “Since I have no better offers coming my way, might as well say yes.”

Potter’s smile is bright enough to light some of the sconces on the walls.  
  
–  
  
“We will not dance,” Harry tells Draco, hands on his hips. His hair is falling into his eyes, he’s got a five-o-clock shadow and an exasperated expression Draco would love to kiss right off.  
  
“We have to dance!” Draco responds, throwing his hands up. “It’s a Ball, Potter! People go there to dance.”

“Did you see me during the Yule Ball?” Harry demands.

“Unfortunately.”

“Then why would you ask me to dance?”  
  
_Because I want to feel your waist against my hands. Because I want to feel your hands on my shoulders, on my waist, against my own hands. Because I want you to kiss my knuckles. Because, because, because._

“Because you may have no sense of decorum, but I do and one does not go to a Ball to stand by the refreshments table and chat with Hermione and her Weasley.”

Harry sighs.  
  
“Malfoy, please. There’s two weeks left, I can’t possibly learn how to dance in that time.”

“What you can learn is how to not trip on my feet while I lead. Now, if you don’t want to go to the Ball dateless, you will turn up in that Charms classroom beside the dungeons every single evening and spend at least an hour with me.”

Harry scowls.  
  
“Fine.”  
  
“Good.”

–  
  
Harry’s a quick learner, Draco discovers. He finds himself distracted by thoughts of what else he might learn just this fast and if Harry notices his inopportune blushing, he says nothing. 

He doesn’t take very long to pick up on something and once he does, he doesn’t forget. In three days he knows how not to pulverise Draco’s toes, in six he knows how to follow fairly well.

“You’re atrocious, but you’re getting there,” Draco tells him.

Harry looks relieved and even dares to ask for Sunday off. He receives a vicious boot to his toe and that shuts him up.

–  
  
Two days before the Ball, Draco asks Harry to bring his suit. Harry does.

It’s a brown ensemble that he’s pairing with a pale green shirt and a dark green tie. He isn’t wearing it but the very thought of Harry in those clothes makes Draco a little dizzy.

“It’ll do,” he says, feigning a critical eye.

“What are you wearing?” Harry asks.

Draco doesn’t tell him he will redo his robes with the correct charms tonight.  
  
–  
  
Harry’s waiting outside the Great Hall with Hermione and Weasley whom Draco is seeing after almost seven months. The last time Draco saw Weasley was in May when he’d been wearing tattered clothes, face covered in soot, grime and blood. Now he looks transformed, standing beside Hermione in black robes. Auror training has clearly done wonders for him and Hermione seems to share this opinion if her smitten and rather awe-struck expression is anything to go by.

Harry looks… gorgeous. He’s tied his hair back, now that it’s long enough for that, he’s shaved and he looks positively gorgeous in the suit, the green of his tie bringing out his eyes. He’s not wearing his glasses, probably courtesy of a strong, temporary vision charm. Draco’s glad he’s wearing robes or there would have been a dangerously uncomfortable situation in his pants.

When he approaches, he sees out of the corner of his eye the way Harry looks him up and down, focusing instead on Hermione who’s grinning at him. “You clean up well, Malfoy,” she tells him. Weasley nods behind her. “You too,” he tells her, taking in her black, embroidered robes and leaning down to kiss her knuckles. “Good to see you Weasley,” he says, politely and is surprised to find he actually means it. Weasley nods, if a bit awkwardly but its more than Draco expected anyway.

He turns to face Harry whose pupils look a bit blown, probably because of the strange lighting. “Satisfactory, Potter?”

Harry nods before smiling. “More than.”

They look at each other for a few more seconds before Weasley clears his throat, gesturing to the doors of the Hall. “Shall we?”

Hermione leans in and whispers in his ear, “The arse, Draco. Make sure you don’t miss the arse,” in response to which his cheeks heat up. Harry shoots him a curious look and Weasley looks slightly disturbed but Draco shakes his head rapidly before extending an arm to Harry, who takes it.  
  
“Now, then. Let’s see how many of my toes you can shatter in a few hours.”

–  
  
The Great Hall has been decorated the way it had been for the Yule Ball in Fourth Year. There is fake snow underfoot that feels soft and powdery, the candles are bobbing gleefully overhead and the starry sky visible has occasional shooting stars. It isn’t Christmas yet but the air is full of Christmas spirit, laughter and the smell of mulled wine.

Ginevra’s here with Lovegood on her arm. They’re both wearing different shades of yellow and Draco marvels at the way most couples have chosen to pair their robes to suit each other. He looks down at his own green robes that match Harry’s tie and the brown cravat and wonders if the people looking at them think they’re a couple. The thought makes his breath catch and Harry looks at him with concern.  
  
“You alright, Malfoy?”

Draco nods. Harry doesn’t look convinced but nods anyway. “Let me know if you need something.”

Those words, Merlin, those words.

_Let me know if you need something._

_Your hands on me. Your mouth on mine. My mouth on yours and everywhere else. You. I need you. I think I always have._

Instead he smiles and says, “What a caring boyfriend you make, Potter,” and delights in the way the colour rushes into Harry’s cheeks.

–

They dance.

Draco leads, Harry follows.

Through the dances, Draco keeps up a running commentary on the couples, their robes, other things that strike him. Sometimes its snarky, sometimes its admiring. Harry laughs often and Draco feels like the centre of the universe with Harry’s entire focus on him.

When at last they’re bored of dancing and they look around to see Harry’s friends all caught up in each other’s eyes, they look towards each other and by mutual, silent agreement, leave the Hall as surreptitiously as possible.

–

“That was more fun than I thought it would be,” Harry admits once they’re out on the grounds.

“That’s because you came with me,” Draco says, haughtily. He pairs it with a smile to let Harry know he’s joking but Harry’s expression turns oddly serious.

“I think that might be true.”

Draco stumbles. Harry reaches out to catch him and in the process, they’re pulled towards each other, Harry’s hand on Draco’s wrist and Draco’s hand on Harry’s shoulder.

He stares, wide eyed at Harry who is far too close for Draco to even think properly. He smells of pine and sandalwood and Draco knows that when he brews _Amortentia_ next, this is what it will smell like.

They’re much too close.

But Draco doesn’t want to move away and Harry isn’t moving away.

“I think,” Harry says and his breath ghosts along Draco’s lips gently, “The only reason I had this much fun was because I went with you.”

Draco doesn’t know what he’s thinking when he closes the distance between them, brushing his lips softly across Harry’s in a chaste, tiny kiss that lingers for a split second.

When he draws back, Harry’s eyes are closed.

 _Fuck_ , Draco thinks, suddenly panicking. _Fuck._

“You’ve got to stop saying that word.”

He looks at Harry, who’s eyes are open and Merlin, the green in them is a faint circle around the blown pupils.

Draco hesitates but Harry doesn’t. His hands reach up to cradle Draco’s face and he barely has a split second to appreciate how large Harry’s hands really are before he’s being tugged forward, meeting Harry’s lips in a searing kiss.

Their lips fit against each other and the last coherent thought Draco is capable of is a fervent thanks to Salazar that Harry didn’t wear his fucking spectacles today before he’s overwhelmed by _heat_ and _soft_ and _gorgeous_ and _fuck, at last_.

When Harry’s tongue swipes across his bottom lip, Draco whimpers which Harry uses to deepen the kiss even further. There’s salvation in this kiss, Draco knows. There’s repentance and hope in every breath that ghosts across his skin, in every push of Harry’s tongue against his own.  
  
When they break away from each other, Harry’s eyes are shining and his lips are kiss-swollen. In that moment, Draco knows Harry has never looked more beautiful.

Reaching up to cover Harry’s hand with his own where it rests against his cheek, Draco murmurs in a raspy voice, “Hey, Potter?”

Harry hums.

“Want to go see the Lake from the Dungeons?”

Harry’s answering smile is like a shooting star across the night sky.


End file.
